


Sand & Steel

by moobloomsupremacy



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Apocalypse, Gen, Not a ship fic, One Shot, Science Fiction, just homies vibing, pogtopia versus dream team kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moobloomsupremacy/pseuds/moobloomsupremacy
Summary: A post-apocalyptic throwdown in an abandoned parking lot, featuring George's newfound talent at swordfighting, Technoblade's cape (it's own character at this point), and Tommy learning how to drive.- oneshot (perhaps)- nanowrimo 2020!- action and banter mostly
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Sand & Steel

**Author's Note:**

> heya! welcome to a oneshot i saw in a dream, and wrote in four consecutive hours. some good old mad-max style apocalypse action for your reading pleasure, along with our favorite content creators!  
> if you enjoy this, i am working on a longer fic right now called Beyond, which is a totally different concept but also has mcyts and swordfighting. check it out if you'd like!  
> and our routine psa: this is not a ship fic. if anyone featured in this story expresses discomfort with being included in platonic fanfiction, i'll take the whole thing down. respect content creators and their wishes pls!  
> i hope you like this little story!  
> \- author (she/her)

WHAM!  
George’s head slams against the concrete wall, and he’s ripped from the darkness and into the bright, loud, painful world of consciousness. He groans, forcing himself upright with one hand and clutching his aching skull with the other. Figures and projectiles whip past him, and it all comes rushing back to George.

The supply run, on a clear morning like any other. A truck, reinforced with steel plates and studded with wooden spears. His friends yelling, Dream leaving his side and sprinting to the cache of weapons hidden in the rusty Subaru beside the crumbling grocery store. The asphalt of the parking lot, dotted with long unlit street lamps, is no more than a football field in length, but it might as well have been ten in a situation like this.

Who had fired the first round? Was it the man crouched on top of the armored truck bearing down on them? His face was obscured by the gigantic rifle he was holding, but George remembers his fingerless gloves and long brown coat flapping behind him like some twisted superhero. 

George can’t remember at this point, which probably isn’t a good sign. He massages his temples as his ears finally stop ringing, and he can distinguish shouting voices in the turmoil.  
“GEORGE! WHERE DID GEORGE GO?”  
“DREAM, WE NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE! THERE’S MORE OF THEM!”  
“SAPNAP, WHERE’S GEORGE?”  
“Dream?” mumbles the man in question, pushing himself to his feet. The bomb--or whatever it was-- blew George into a thin alleyway between the grocery store and the building next to it, whatever use it had served lost in the uncaring world of the apocalypse. He’s out of the line of fire, but he can’t see what’s going on besides the chunks of rubble and occasional person darting by the opening to the street.

George starts towards the chaos, ready to launch himself back in, when he stumbles over a large duffel bag poking out from beneath the wheels of a warped vehicle. The weapons! The explosion must have dislodged them as well. George instinctively checks his belt, and finds that his go-to bat is missing. Go figure. George rips open the bag, rifles through the stacks of assorted guns and knives, and finds a sword. He gives it a swing. It’s blunt, and was probably used as a prop in another lifetime, but it’s still made of steel, and has a similar weight to his bat. It’ll do, George decides, and he tosses himself back into the fray without any more distractions.

The first thing he sees is Badboyhalo, crouched behind one of the few surviving cars in its parking spot, twirling his knives between his fingers and chewing on his lips. His glasses are broken again, George notices, and it seems to be making him less confident. He watches as Bad hops to his feet and tosses a knife at the passing truck, aiming for the tires, but he misses by an inch and the knife bounces onto the pavement. Whoever’s driving the car cackles, and George’s blood boils. He charges out from his hiding place, newly found sword in hand, and bears down on the first unfamiliar fighter he sees, who seems to be dueling Sapnap on the sidewalk. Their back is to him, and George senses he has the advantage. He aims low, swiping at the backs of their ankles, and hits squarely. The short assailant gives a high-pitched squeak and crumples to the ground, letting go of their weapon immediately. Sapnap swipes it up and locks eyes with George, who’s already pinned the offender’s wrist to the ground with his foot. 

He breaks out into a wide grin. “Nice going, dude! Hey Dream, you can shut up about George now! He’s fine-- and he got a sword!”  
George follows the swivel of his head, to where a tall, masked figure is aiming punches at the man with the long coat from earlier. George is relieved to see he doesn’t have a gun, but he seems to be tackling Dream hand-to-hand with surprising success. Dream looks over at George and Sapnap for a split second, but it’s all the other man needs, hitting Dream squarely in the jaw with a crack that George can hear from thirty feet away. Sapnap groans.  
“I’m gonna go help him. Tie this kid up for me?”

George nods, and Sapnap jogs off. No other attackers seem to have noticed George yet, so he gets to work with the length of rope in his belt. As he ties the squirming kid to the ground, George realizes that he’s just that-- a child. Shaggy brown hair, a ripped gray tee-shirt, and high-top shoes don’t make him look very threatening, but there’s something about the strength with which he’s resisting George that makes him realize this skinny, baby-faced teenager could definitely put up a fight. If he wasn’t whining so much, George might have even felt sorry for him.

“Let me go! Stop tying me up, I’ll roast out here if you just leave me! My friends are gonna kill you now… we said we weren’t, you know, that we just wanted food, but why did you guys have to fight? Let me go NOW!” He kicks out at George and hits his knee, sending an explosion of pain through George’s already sore muscles. He grits his teeth and tightens the wrist restraints a little more painfully than usual.  
“Nobody has any handouts to give right now, not even to kids like you. Sorry.” With the youth still thrashing and yelling after him, George leaves him to wriggle like a worm on the sidewalk. He’ll deal with him later. Right now, there are bigger problems on George’s mind.

The truck is whizzing in circles around the parking lot, Bad still aiming knives at the tires from behind the relative safety of his car. Sapnap and Dream seem to be finally turning the tide against the gloved man, with a mixture of knife slashes leaving his coat in ribbons, and good old-fashioned kicking and punching. It’s not exactly the most elegant fight in the world, but they hadn’t prepared for a situation like this when they left their camp this morning, and George knows they’re all hesitating to kill any of these strangers. Survivors are rare, after all, and not even Bad, who hunted game before the world fell apart, is really comfortable with killing people. George wonders if any of them will ever be. If it still feels like the first time after two years, how will he ever be able to live with himself?  
Guess I’ll just have to focus on staying alive in the first place, he thinks dryly.

As if on cue, he spies a blur of red dash out from behind a faraway car. It’s a person, darting between dead trees and rusty Jeeps, making their way towards Bad. There’s something sharp gripped in their hands, and it looks like their distinctive red cape has seen its fair share of death.  
George wastes no time in bearing down on the person, yelling at Bad as he whips by him. “Someone’s coming on your right, Bad-- I got em!”  
“George!” the man cheers, shaking his fist at him good-naturedly. “You had us worried for a sec! I don’t think they have any more of those cherry bombs in the truck, but whoever’s driving is a maniac!”  
The truck does a perfectly-timed donut, tires squealing and the smell of rubber permeating the air. There’s another squeal, but it seems to be coming from the driver’s seat this time. Bad looks horrified.  
“I better stop this car before they get themself killed! What the muffin…”  
George chuckles a little at that, but leaves Bad to it when he realizes that the cloaked man is far too close for comfort. Under the thick, fur-lined fabric (he must be sweating like a pig, George thinks), he looks lanky, and he moves a little awkwardly, as if he’s not entirely sure of himself. George squares his shoulders. He might be several inches shorter than this guy, but it seems like he’ll have a fighting chance. 

As he jogs over, his opponent having given up on a surprise attack, it seems, the cloaked man smiles. “Aw yeah,” he drawls, “I was hoping somebody around here would have a sword. Dueling with spears is fun, but…” he slowly draws a very shiny, very large, and very real sword from the recesses of his cape, “I love seeing the look on people’s face when I pull this bad boy out.”  
George struggles not to look intimidated. One well-placed swipe of the massive blade and he knows his head will be chopped clean off. This is going to be harder than he anticipated.  
He charges at the man, trying to take him by surprise, but he sidesteps George with ease, and George’s swing with an unfamiliar weapon throws him off balance. Looking bored, the sandy-haired man sticks out a nonchalant foot and trips him. George goes sprawling, face red as a beet, and not just from sunburn.  
“That was easy,” chuckles Cape Man. “Here, get back up real quick. I was kinda expecting a cooler win.”

George scrambles up, furious, and readjusts his stance. The two circle each other warily, blades at the ready, waiting for the other to strike first. George gives his new sword an experimental twirl, trying to figure out how best to use it. Once he feels like he understands the balance enough not to repeat his mistake, he swipes at Cape Man’s dominant arm. Cape Man dodges again, but has an excited glint in his eyes. He jabs back, and George has to leap out of the way. Finally, they both move at once, and their blades meet in midair in a clash of steel. Then the battle truly begins-- blocking each other’s blows in the nick of time and attacking with more and more ferocity as the minutes pass. They duel their way across the parking lot, until they’re almost side by side with Dream, Sapnap, and the gloved man, who still hasn’t given up despite being outnumbered. Cape Man pipes up.

“Can’t you just give us your food? We’ll leave you guys alone. Probably. Most of you, that is. I might steal this guy’s sword, though. For practice, of course. Wilbur sucks with a spear.”  
“Technoblade,” yells the gloved man, who must be Wilbur, dodging a punch from Sapnap and tackling Dream to the ground, “will you shut up and let me concentrate?” He has the same accent as the kid who fought Sapnap, George notices. What a coincidence, that some of the first survivors their group had met had also picked up a couple British people along the way. It must be the natural English charm.

“Alright, alright,” gripes the man apparently called Technoblade, stabbing George so swiftly that it catches his arm, leaving a shallow cut already blooming red. “Sorry that you’re not as cool as me.”  
“I know we’re supposed to be enemies,” growls George, arm and ego stinging, “but I agree with the Wilbur guy.” Propelled forward with a sudden, last burst of energy, he grips the hilt of his sword with both hands, and slashes Technoblade vertically across the chest. It barely reaches his skin, not even cutting him in most places, but what it does do is break the brittle gold clasp of his cape. The swath of scarlet fabric falls to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust.  
Technoblade’s eyes widen. He takes a few steps back, hand held against the tattered remains of his white blouse. “My cape…” Completely forgetting about the fight, he drops to his knees to clutch at the garment. George, sensing his only opportunity, calmly sets the tip of his sword against Technoblade’s throat. The man sighs, sets down his sword, and raises his arms. “That was a low blow, but effective. I concede. Wilbur?”  
“Yes?” croaks the curly-haired young man, currently being strangled by both Dream and Sapnap simultaneously.  
Technoblade doesn’t seem alarmed by his ally’s predicament. “Either Eret pulls out another one of those firecracker contraptions, or we’ve lost. I’m leaning towards the latter.”  
Wilbur’s eyes are nearly popping out of his head as it is, but Technoblade’s words seem to ring true. He goes limp in Dream’s arms, a clear sign of defeat. Cautiously, George’s friends let the man go, and his shoulders immediately slump. “White flag,” he mumbles unhappily.  
Meanwhile, Bad has given up on slashing the still-spinning truck’s tires from afar, and has managed to leap onto the back, clutching at the makeshift walls circling the cargo bed and hanging on like Spiderman. It’s such an unexpected and badass sight that George almost laughs. A pale arm holding a simple kitchen knife reaches over the pieced-together sheets and stabs wildly at Bad’s head. “Look out!” George calls hurriedly, and all heads swivel to the ridiculous sight. The knife misses by a mile, with whoever’s holding it having no way to see where Bad actually is, but to the person’s credit, they keep trying.  
“GET HIM ERET! STAB THAT SON OF A--” the truck whizzes by them, a nasal and oddly high-pitched voice yelling from the driver’s seat.  
Technoblade sighs, crossing his legs and watching with amusement. “I guess that answers my question: Eret’s out of explosives.”  
“They’re a bit shit with knives, innit? I’m pretty sure my gun’s still on the roof,” replies Wilbur. Dream, Sapnap and George listen to their banter, and share a look. George can practically see Dream roll his eyes behind his mask.  
“Guys! Guys, why are you giving up?” laments a voice from a few feet away. “Come and untie me, please?”  
Wilbur locks eyes with Sapnap. “Hate to be high-maintenance here, but would you please untie Tubbo? I promise you, without me telling him to, he won’t fight. He’s pretty harmless.”  
Sapnap stomps off to deal with Tubbo, and Dream smirks at George. “Watch these losers for me, I’m gonna go wrap this up before Bad breaks his glasses.”  
“You’re a little too late for that,” says George, but he gives Dream an affectionate punch on the shoulder and steps in between Wilbur and Technoblade, alternating his sword between each of their necks.

Dream runs off at a ridiculous speed, long legs in a blur as he recklessly launches himself up onto the side of the truck. The driver must have noticed-- the car swerves, narrowly dodging a street lamp, then zigzags around in a circle, trying to throw Dream off. George stares as he slips through the passenger window, the edges reinforced with steel but not welded shut like the other side window. There’s a series of bangs, a scream that makes George check to see if his ears are bleeding, then a body is launched violently out of the driver’s seat, bursting out of the truck and rolling to a halt on the ground. George is relieved to see the person move, and he can tell that Wilbur and Technoblade are too. The latter turns to the former and inquires, “did Tommy learn to drive before the apocalypse, or was it just you who taught him?”  
“Just me,” says Wilbur ruefully. “That kid’s gonna be the death of me if I don’t get taken out by a sandstorm first. I’m glad Tubbo hasn’t asked about lessons yet-- we might not have enough fuel for him anyways.”

The truck, moving much less erratically and far slower now, rolls into the parking space right beside the Subaru, which has the weapons bag still peeking out from under it. Dream parks neatly, then hops out, running a hand through his bushy hair. He runs to Tommy, the guy he kicked out, and drags him by the arm back to the group.  
Tommy is another skinny kid like Tubbo, not much older than sixteen or seventeen, and his long nose is crooked and bleeding from the fight. He’s a couple inches taller than Dream, and, embarrassingly, towers over George, but he has the pompous spring in his step that only a teenager could have. He sniffs and wipes blood from his nose, twisting his arm from Dream’s grip.  
“YOU JUST ASSAULTED A MINOR. HOW DO YOU FEEL GOOD SIR?”

Bad joins the growing circle right behind him, holding a gun he must have grabbed and leading someone George hasn’t seen before with him. This must be Eret, with the explosives, George thinks. Their curly hair, chunky combat boots and dark sunglasses scream mad scientist.  
“Is this everyone? Did you guys have backup, or did you think you could take the four best fighters left in North America on your own?” Dream crosses his arms, tapping his foot menacingly.  
Everyone except the four in question scowls, and Bad tentatively says, “well, they gave it their best!” There’s a moment of silence.

“It’s just us, Big Man. Happy now?” Tommy seems to be the crankiest of them all, immediately plopping down next to Tubbo, who slings an arm around his shoulders. “The hell did you do to Techno? He looks like he is about to cry. Are you about to cry, Technoblade?”  
“No,” sighs Technoblade. “It’s just… I got this cape fixed last week, and now I’m gonna have to fix it again. Consider me inconvenienced.”  
“What are we gonna do with these guys, Dream?” asks Sapnap. “They just want food, apparently.”  
“Yep,” Tubbo nods.  
“Oh come on now,” Dream scoffs, “we can’t just give them our food, there’s not enough.”  
“I’ll give them my portion,” offers Bad, but George shuts him down.  
“BAD. No way, we’re not gonna let you do that.”  
“Well, do you have any better ideas?”  
“I--” George stops to think about it for a moment, and finds that he actually does. “Yeah, let’s take them back to camp. We can team up.”  
“WHAT?” Dream is flabbergasted. “Where did that even come from, George?”  
“I dunno, I mean, they’re good fighters, and they must have their own stuff too, that we can share, or trade. You saw how fast those other guys last month got picked off, and we haven’t seen Skeppy since, well…” George trails off at the look in Bad’s eyes at the mention of his closest companion. “My point is,” he continues stubbornly, “we’re better together.”

The dry wind whistles through the nooks and crannies of the abandoned buildings that surround the ragtag group, still and silent in a long-empty parking lot. George starts to doubt the solidity of his idea, but Wilbur clears his throat conspicuously.  
“We had one like that too. His name is--was Phil. We haven’t seen him for,” Wilbur pauses to think, “God, I don’t even know at this point. A year, maybe. Too long.  
“If everyone agrees, and only then, I’d say I’m down. To team up in some kind of way. We’re gonna run into each other again at some point, and I’d rather be friends when that day comes.”  
Techno, Tubbo, Eret and Tommy all give some sign of agreement. All eyes go to Sapnap and Dream.  
The masked man looks at his friend. “What do you think?” Sapnap shrugs. “I’m down. Your call, Dream.”

It’s impossible to see what Dream is thinking with his face covered, but George has known him for so long that he can see the shift in his expression. He knows what’s coming before Dream says it, and when he does, the whole group relaxes just a little.  
“Alright then, sounds like a deal.”  
George finally sheaths his sword, and everyone gets to their feet. Dream crosses to Technoblade, capeless but looking hopeful, and sticks out a hand.  
“Welcome to the Dream Team.”


End file.
